Notes:

· The Harry Potter timeline will be moved up to the twenty-first century so it can fit with the BNHA timeline.

· This will be partial AU, because U.A. Academy will start in September, not April.

Five-year-old Harry Potter was Quirkless.

Even in the small, humble town of Little Whinging, Surrey, it was important enough for the government to send over personnel to St. Grogory's Primary School to help the children his age discover what their Quirks were. The school was buzzing that day, and all of the kids moved as if their limbs were charged with energy. Everyone that entered the nurse's room always exited with a smile that was larger than life, and was quick to exclaim their Quirk to anyone who would hear.

Harry Potter, that poor little boy that has gone through more than any five-year-old should, entered the nurse's office with a reserved smile. However, that spark in his green eyes and the jittery vibrations of his body did little to hide his excitement.

He, always the late bloomer, scrawnier and skinnier than the rest of his peers, was going to finally figure out what his Quirk was.

Their doctor was a nice, pretty lady that had a nice smile and asked Harry all kinds of small questions as she prepared her notes and her pens and papers. She carefully told him between her light chatter about the three cats she had at home that she had a Quirk that would be able to tell her what someone's Quirk was. She carefully took his hand and held it between her two own, and Harry watched in silent amazement at how the three hands glowed like he was holding a flashlight against his skin in the dark. To make the process pass by easier, she started up with the small talk once more, but Harry could only fix his eyes on their skin.

Suddenly, among small chatter of how she was planning on being a Hero, but ultimately decided on this profession for the government and, "Isn't life just crazy like that—?"

She stopped.

For a quick second, Harry believed that this was a side-effect of her Quirk, that the words of his Quirk were being fed into her brain right now, but then she slowly turned her head as if she was a puppet on strings, with the head being turned on a rickety joint. The woman's eyes were wide with fear. Harry quickly asked her what was wrong, his voice urgent, and the moment the woman's eyes met with his, she quickly muttered the word that would cement his childhood as what he really was.

"Oh, sweetie—" Her voice bled with pity.

Harry's heart dropped to his stomach.

"—You're—"

Quirkless.

. . .

Poor Harry Potter, who was too young to not quite grasp the idea of his aunt's loathing of him, could only come home crying to his aunt while holding the paper that told them of his condition. Tears fell down his cheeks, but he didn't whine, or shout, he only waited and watched.

Petunia offered no form of comfort, but no satisfied smirk about how her Dudders was much better than he was. She only turned paper-white, and shook with fear as she scanned the contents of the paper that set Harry's future in stone.

She only whispered one thing to him, amidst a pale face and white knuckles.

"Your freak of a mother was just the same."

Harry Potter was kicked out of the house again.

At six years old and during the peak of winter, one would've thought that his relatives would've been more sympathetic to the nephew that they were left with, but Dudley, who flaunted around his quirk of being able to transform his skin with rubber-like (but Harry always internally called it blubber-like) qualities, had been shoving Harry around in the living room, and pushed the boy into Aunt Petunia's fine china showcase. His aunt screamed like a banshee at him, weeping for her shattered plates and painted kettles, and left him no compassion as she pushed the boy outside and slammed the door in his face.

The weather was brutal at this time of the year, especially for someone dressed only in too-big sweatpants, a ratty sweater, and a worn out shirt underneath. However, he had been kicked out before, and for all of those times, he made his way to the local library to read, or made his way to the park to watch the kids his age play with their parents or show their Quirks off to their friends. Harry sighed again, and kicked at a small pebble at the sidewalk with his ratty, hand-me-down sneakers before making his way down the street.

He turned around the corner and started to wind his way out of the suburb's street before he was forced to pause when a car slowed down in front of him. A used white Chevy model slowly pulled up to the driveway, with the metal rattling and the bright headlights being dimmed by the snow that was slowly falling. The car jolted to a stop with a quick pull of the breaks, and in an instant, Hisashi Midoriya clambered out.

"H-Harry!" the Japanese businessman cried out, surprised at the appearance of the young wizard. He took in his appearance and forced himself to speak past his shock. "W-What are you doing here?"

Harry blinked at the appearance of their neighbor, blindsided by the headlights before he stuttered back into reality. All of Aunt Petunia's lessons on manners quickly flashed into line and the boy jumped from remembrance.

"H-Hello, Mr. Midoriya! How are you?" Harry said, his voice still light with his young age, but his voice shook with contained shudders and clatters of teeth.

They knew each other, and with Petunia's gossiping, everyone in the household knew about him. Hisashi Midoriya was a businessman that had transferred from Japan to England several years ago, and according to the neighbors, he didn't seem to do anything but work. His accent was still thick and according to the neighborhood ladies, he didn't seem to go anywhere but his workplace up in London or the market. He had no friends aside from co-workers, and no family that he brought with them.

Harry understood that.

The two were familiar with each other because their mails were often mixed up since Harry lived in Number Four Privet Drive, and Mr. Midoriya lived a couple streets down in Number Four Privat Way, so their "good-for-nothing" (Aunt Petunia's words, not his) mailman, an old, balding man of seventy-three, often messed up the two streets.

Whenever that happened, Petunia would send Harry down the streets to switch their mail, and that was common.

The older male started to mutter quickly under his breath, trying to figure out exactly why Harry was on the sidewalk. He couldn't have been here because of the mail, because it was Sunday, there was no post on Sundays. He couldn't be here because it was playtime either, because it was near dinnertime, and there was no way he was out here this late purposefully—

Suddenly Harry let out a loud shudder from the cold that started to reach the marrow of his bones and wrapped his arms around himself to try and keep warm. Hisashi stopped his inconsistent muttering and fell silent, his green eyes growing warm at the sight of the child in front of him. It was a sad sight: one made even sadder with the snow that was falling against stark black strands of hair and a reddening nose. With a quick shut of the car door behind him, the man walked up to his front door and quickly unlocked it, holding the door out.

"Harry-kun," he said, "Harry," he instantly corrected, softly. The young boy looked up with wide eyes and bore those green eyes into the worn-out man's figure. "The snow will get harder. Do you want to come in?"

The child's near-blue lips parted in slight surprise, and he stood, frozen. Hisashi only gave him a wary smile and with a huff, he opened the door wider.

The moment Hisashi closed the door, two pairs of shoes were neatly placed at the entrance.

After that day, Hisashi returned Harry when the snow settled and waited patiently for Petunia to open the door. With the way her face paled, you would've believed that she had seen a ghost.

She scrambled through the proper pleasantries, giving him thanks and weaving a tale about how her, "nephew loves to sneak out, we were all worried sick!" before returning his awkward bows with even awkwarder, stiff bends. With one more goodbye to Harry, Mr. Midoriya took down the street and around the corner. She roughly pulled Harry in by the hair, and shouted at him before she grabbed both of his biceps with a bony grip and shook him.

"You insufferable boy! Why did you give Mr. Midoriya trouble?!" she demanded, giving Harry a good slap against the side of his head. "When we let you outside, we expect you to keep out of everyone's way!"

"B-But Mr. Midoriya was the one who invited me in and he said that I was a good kid!" Harry tried to protest, flinching when his aunt raised another hand. "H-he said that he wouldn't mind babysitting me again! J-Just ask him!"

His words fell to deaf ears when his aunt continued to relentlessly scold him.

But soon, she would have to heed his words. June was slowly approaching, and Dudley was already screeching and demanding for celebrations for his "Birthmonth." When he found out that Uncle Vernon wouldn't be able to make it back in time from work to go out on an outing every day of the week, Dudley threw a fit and destroyed the couch with his Quirk. Petunia was quick to promise that they would take him out every weekend, everywhere he wanted to go, and that quieted him up real quick.

However, Mrs. Figg had to visit some relatives for the entire month, Aunt Marge was going to go to out of the country for vacation, and there was no way the Dursleys were leaving Harry alone in their humble home. Suddenly, that prospect that Hisashi gave them sounded a whole lot better, so the Dursleys dropped Harry off at his doorstep and never looked back.

That was how Hisashi Midoriya became the unofficial babysitter of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Hisashi was slightly aloof and wasn't very expressive, but once someone dug to the very basics of Mr. Midoriya's character, one could see that he was a bit timid and shy, sometimes he would overreact when met with a scare, and he would break into a flustered smile and jittery nature when that little old lady next door gave him some extra cake. He mumbled a lot, maybe a bit too much and too often.

He didn't like to turn on the heater, and complained in both languages that it cost too much money, so he liked to blow fire into the fireplace and let the heat around the modest house grow that way.

When he asked Harry about his Quirk, the boy shook his head and said that he didn't have one.

Instead of pity or ridicule, Mr. Midoriya quickly apologized for prying, and changed the subject right away. He never brought it up again, and never treated Harry like he held a burden, nor a fragile object either.

He had never been more glad about the man's awkwardness.

Hisashi, Harry learned early on, was not a good cook. He often fed Harry miso soup or grilled salmon, the very basics of his skills.

Even though Harry wasn't a chooser, and was more than thankful for the man feeding him, (Mr. Midoriya did twice the job that the Dursleys did), the same old dried piece of salmon and mushy rice was enough to make Harry feel sick after a while.

Soon, even Harry had enough of the man burning something like instant curry on the stove, and pulled up a step stool to take the reins. A little while after, Harry was soon making small meals that could make even the inexpressive Hisashi gush over his cooking skills.

Blushing from the praise, Harry thought that he didn't like cooking when he was being forced to by the Dursleys, but for Mr. Midoriya, he didn't mind.

Unknowingly, he introduced Harry to Japanese culture.

He called him "Harry-kun" out of habit, and eventually Mr. Midoriya stopped correcting himself, and Harry just took it in stride. Mr. Midoriya taught Harry how to use chopsticks, to hold the bowl to his face when he ate, he got Harry his own pair of bathroom slippers, and soon Harry started to unconsciously copy the man's habit of bowing. Sometimes the older male would slurp so loudly that it would be enough to give Aunt Petunia a heart attack, so he knew how to separate the two cultures.

When Mr. Midoriya wasn't busy on the weekends, he would take Harry to the library and they would learn English together.

One day, Harry had finished all of his novels, and it was almost time to leave so he didn't go up and get another. Since Mr. Midoriya was in the bathroom, Harry sat at their usual table, alone and slightly bored. He had finished his homework, and all of his books were returned to their proper spot in the shelves. The only thing on the table was a Japanese to English dictionary, some basic grammar books, and scattered papers with sentence examples or quick tests scribbled on them. Mr. Midoriya liked to take notes, so a thin composition notebook was open up to a page that was half written in.

Hoping that his babysitter didn't mind, Harry reached out to grab the Japanese to English dictionary, and he quickly scanned through the contents, keeping a thumb in place to bookmark Mr. Midoriya's page. He caught some characters and words, mumbling the pronunciation to himself and admiring the way they looked.

A sudden hand on his shoulders made the young boy jolt in his chair, and the voice leaned in to ask:

"Would you like to learn, Harry-kun?"

Harry decided that he liked Mr. Midoriya.

Or, maybe, Harry was just craving for some sort of normalcy in his life, craving some kind of adult figure that didn't lash out at him if he messed up the dishes because he couldn't reach the properly, or for missing a spot when he swept.

Even without a power, a Quirk, Harry's life was anything but normal.

Maybe it was a bit too selfish to think this, but Mr. Midoriya fed him, he was the one to buy Harry a new sweater when he found that his current one was ratty and torn, and he taught Harry what he needed to know.

He was the one that Harry brought his report card to, and the one that Harry made a card for on Father's Day. When Harry was sliced with a knife from another classmate trying to show off, Harry immediately told the teachers to call Mr. Midoriya. While Hisashi awkwardly and reluctantly accepted all of these actions, he never outright refused Harry either. It was a bit disheartening at first, but as soon as the man realized that he unintentionally hurt Harry in some way, he was quick to smile and pat his head. Without more hesitation, he'd make it up to Harry in some way.

It didn't help that Mr. Midoriya had dark hair and green eyes much like Harry's own. It was only their Asian and Western features that split them apart from family, but it was close enough for him.

Mr. Midoriya was family, and no one could tell him otherwise.

"I have a son, you know, back in Japan. His name is Izuku Midoriya," Mr. Midoriya suddenly said, eyes focused on the small fire in front of them. Harry's head suddenly lifted from the fluffy blanket that Mr. Midoriya had given him and his wide green eyes stared at the man's side profile.

It was a heavy downpour, the hardest that they had seen all year, yet the Dursleys were out of town to visit some distant relatives that they had been gossiping about not even moments before they left the house. With them gone and no one else to watch him, they pushed Harry off to Mr. Midoriya's house.

The power was knocked out for the entire block, and that included all of the heating and cooling systems. However, Mr. Midoriya had a nice Quirk of being able to breathe small amounts of fire from his mouth and quickly set up the fireplace. Soon, the two settled into a comfortable silence of just sitting in front of the warm flames and settling their eyes on the orange flames.

That was, until Mr. Midoriya spoke up—and Mr. Midoriya never talked about his life in Japan. Sure, it came up every now and then—it had to if he wanted Harry to learn the language and the culture, but he had never talked about himself, his family there.

Mr. Midoriya seemingly ignored Harry's shocked face and continued to stare at the flames in front of him. "He is about your age," the man said, almost as an afterthought.

Nine-year-old Harry got out of his shock and stuttered back to reality. The blanket around him tightened.

"Do you miss your family?" the boy eventually asked, voice soft, because he knew that if Petunia was away from Dudley for this long, his aunt would weep enough for a river. Then, he asked, "Do you want to see them again?"

Something shined over the older man's darker green eyes, and for a moment he held an expression that Harry couldn't read. For a while, the only sounds that could be heard was the crackling of the fire, the patter of the rain against the roofs and windows, and the drips from the leak in the ceiling.

"No…" Hisashi eventually said, making Harry's head rise. The man turned to face Harry's surprised expression and gave him a smile that was almost wistful. "It must be hard for you to hear that, Harry-kun, but you will understand when you are older."

"Understand what?" Harry asked, wide-eyed and insistent. He didn't get it, he was sure that Mr. Midoriya missed his family, so why wouldn't he see them? "But I can understand now!"

"Can you, Harry?" the man chuckled, taking his hand out of the folds of his soft fleece blanket to pat Harry's head. Large green eyes looked up at him.

"Of course I can!" the young boy said with as much ferocity in his words as a child could muster.

That hand dropped, and the crackles of the flames seem to grow louder.

Mr. Midoriya's eyes dropped to the ground and a small brush of fire escaped from his lips as he sighed.

"I love my son," Hisashi eventually said. Then, once more, more forcefully he repeated it, almost as if he tried to convince himself. "I love my son." He turned to Harry and looked at the boy, and he turned thoughtful. His darker green eyes reflected the grey light from the window behind Harry.

"But I chose my job and not a life with him, so…" the man paused, unsure of how to go about this, "I do not think that I should be able to come back. At this point, he's probably all grown up; I do not want to complicate his life."

A small gasp left Harry's lips and he widened his eyes once more.

"But that doesn't mean that it's too late, Mr. Midoriya—!" He couldn't believe what he was hearing, Mr. Midoriya choosing to not see his family? Why would he even think that way? How could a man not want to see his son? For an orphan like him, struggling without true relatives, the whole thing was shocking and mind boggling. It almost shattered the perfect image that he had of Mr. Midoriya.

"I got mail back from my wife," Mr. Midoriya said, cutting Harry off. The man leaned back and looked up at the white ceiling. "She sent back the money I send her every five months. I think she had enough of my distance and…" Before he could finish, he drifted off with an expression that Harry couldn't read. Eventually Mr. Midoriya looked back at Harry who was hanging off every word as if it was a lifeline. Harry closed his lips and frowned softly. It was obvious that the man was trying to be as vague as possible, and Harry was trying too hard to connect the dots. A soft smile appeared on Hisashi's lips and he patted Harry on the shoulder.

"It's getting late, Harry-kun, let me walk you back to the Dursleys."

Harry didn't have a Quirk.

He couldn't see in the dark, stretch himself out, or phase through solid objects like some of his classmates, but that didn't mean that strange things didn't happen to him either.

When another nasty game of "Harry Hunting" happened, Harry somehow found himself on top of the school's roof, but he had no memory of him climbing up whatsoever.

His teacher's wig once turned blue, and even though that was blamed on a mischievous boy who could change the color of anything, Harry just knew that it was him. He had felt that it was him.

Harry once shrunk a sweater down to the size of a doll's, he had grown his bangs back after one night, and most of all, he had managed to vanish the glass of the zoo's boa constrictor.

Not long after his eleventh birthday, Harry was whisked away by Hagrid, keeper of keys and grounds at Hogwarts, and so he believed that even though he didn't have a Quirk, he had something better.

That was five years ago.

Now, in the summer during late July, Harry Potter's eyes flashed wide open as he let out another loud gasp in the night.

"Sirius!" he cried out.